


Cap's Tats

by Kryptaria



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Punk Steve Rogers, Skinny Steve, Tattoo Artist Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-08-21
Packaged: 2018-04-16 13:06:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4626375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Freshly discharged from Special Forces, Bucky heads back home to Brooklyn. Step 1 to building a civilian life: Get a Howling Commandos tattoo. And where better than the disreputable looking local hole-in-the-wall, Cap's Tats?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cap's Tats

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sadieb798](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadieb798/gifts).



> Thanks to pangallimaufry and scriptrixlatinae for the beta!

“You sure about this?” Bucky asked, eyeing the flickering neon sign over the glass door. _Cap’s Tats_. Not exactly a name that inspired confidence. The location wasn’t the greatest, either, despite how the neighborhood had turned around since Bucky had last visited. The shop looked old enough to have been here back when the neighborhood was unsafe for anything less than a fully armed scout squad, much less two soldiers, freshly retired.

“Positive. Trust me.” Clint’s smile didn’t inspire confidence any more than the neon sign did, but at least Bucky was used to Clint’s brand of bullshit. And, yeah, he _did_ trust Clint — a trust earned after too much spilled blood and too many near misses.

Bucky’s shrug drew a creak from his old leather motorcycle jacket, stiff from years of being in storage. “Right,” he said, reaching for the door.

“I’ll catch up with you tomorrow,” Clint said, and Bucky frowned back at him.

“You’re not coming with?”

Clint’s grin turned sly. “Got a date. You’re on your own, pal.” He slapped Bucky’s back and warned, “Just make sure they spell ‘Howling Commandos’ right.”

Bucky looked up at the flickering sign again. Could the place be more disreputable? Probably, but he couldn’t imagine how. “Fine. But if I end up in a bathtub full of ice missing my kidneys, I get one of yours.”

“Organ theft’s an urban legend. You’ll probably just get mugged and dumped naked in an alley. Have fun!” Snickering, Clint headed for the nearby subway.

With a sigh, Bucky felt in his pocket for the thumb drive with a hi-res copy of the Howling Commandos badge. Did a shop like this even have a computer, or would he have to find a nearby Kinko’s to print it out?

Well, he could always walk out if he didn’t like the shop or the artist. He’d wanted this tattoo for ages, but he wasn’t so desperate that he’d let some hack mangle the design. He’d wait another ten years, if it meant the design would be perfect.

 

~~~

 

“But you _need_ a plus-one,” Peggy insisted, turning her head to look back over her shoulder.

Steve stopped her with a gloved finger to her jaw. “Stay still.” When she turned back, he leaned in again, touching the needle to her skin, continuing the gracefully curved edge of a leaf. “I don’t need a date.”

“Who are you going to dance with?”

Steve didn’t roll his eyes only because he wanted this tattoo to be _perfect_. “I don’t dance.”

A hint of threat crept into Peggy’s voice. “You _will_ dance. It’s my wedding. You’ll dance once with me, once with Angie, and the rest of the night, you’ll dance _with your date_.”

“Were you this mean when we were dating?” he asked, sitting back to change colors. The leaf had darker veins and shadows along the edge.

“Of course I was.” Free to move, Peggy turned and looked back over her shoulder. “How does it look?”

Steve waved a hand at her. “No peeking until it’s done.”

“Darling, do you actually think I haven’t looked at it in the mirror at home?”

“No peeking _here_. It’s bad luck.”

“Provincial American superstitions.”

Steve snorted. “More like I don’t want you changing the design halfway through.”

“Oh, please. We settled on this months ago.” Peggy leaned back down, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension she’d always carried there. Steve’s first instinct was to offer a quick massage — purely platonic — but he didn’t want to irritate her skin near the tattoo. Her wedding was just around the corner, and she’d ordered a backless dress specifically to showcase the tattoo.

“Still —”

Steve cut off at a soft _ping_ , like a submarine’s sonar, from the computer speaker in the corner. Had he double-booked this afternoon? He didn’t think so, but the scheduling software was new, and Natasha’s idea of technical support was “Stop complaining. You’re smart. You’ll figure it out.”

“Uh... Let me get that,” he said to Peggy, getting up from his stool. He put down his needle, stripped off his gloves, and headed out to the front of the shop —

And stopped in his tracks. The guy browsing the wall of art was a good six inches taller than Steve, wearing a motorcycle jacket that added unnecessary bulk to his shoulders. His hair hung down around his face, shapeless and in desperate need of a good cut and conditioning. His face and hands were a warm golden brown — all but his pale jaw, as if he’d tanned with a beard and recently shaved it off.

He was absolutely gorgeous. And completely out of Steve’s league.

Steve tried to say hello, but what came out was more like a strangled croak. The guy turned, and his beautiful steel blue eyes went wide as he took in Steve, from head to toe and back again. Steve shrank back, self-conscious in a way he hadn’t been since the day a gorgeous British exchange student had sailed into his Life Studies class, dropped her bathrobe, and smiled right at him as she took up a pose. And back then, he’d only been short and skinny — not short, skinny, pierced, tattooed, and dyed.

But that meeting had ended great, at least until Steve had taken over his dad’s old shop and Peggy had gone back to the UK for grad school. Maybe this one would, too?

Probably not, because the guy was now looking at Steve in that strange, familiar way, as if he’d said something and Steve had completely missed it. Of course, he _had_ , but the guy didn’t need to know that was because he’d been staring. Deliberately turning so his hearing aid showed, he said, “Sorry, what?”

“Oh.” The guy looked down with a flutter of long, dark lashes, and took a step closer. Thankfully, he didn’t shout. “Sorry. I, uh...”

Yep. A novice. A bit more confident now, Steve finished, “Want a tattoo?”

The guy’s deep laugh was even nicer than his eyes. “That or dinner.”

Steve’s lungs seized up as something — maybe his heart — lodged in his throat. Not an asthma attack. No, this was pure shock, because guys like this _didn’t_ ask Steve out to dinner.

Then he remembered that the block was packed with restaurants, stretching out to either side, all the way to the corners. His shop was the only one that didn’t serve food, and he’d had more than a few accidental walk-ins looking for the Chinese place to the west or the pizza joint to the east.

His answering laugh was a little weak. “Sorry. I’ve got a customer already, if you want to go next door and grab a slice for yourself. I should be free in twenty, thirty minutes?” he added, wanting the guy to come back. Then, because he _really_ wanted the guy to come back, he added, “Do you have a design in mind?”

“Actually, yeah.” The guy stuck a hand in his jacket pocket and took out a USB drive.

Steve grinned — customers who brought in designs weren’t ones who’d walk out and never come back — and took the drive, indulging in the urge for a quick brush of skin on skin. Calluses and warmth. “I’ll check it out,” he promised, forcing himself to pull his hand away.

“And I’ll be back in thirty.”

For a few very nice seconds, Steve stared, appreciating the back view just as much as the front. Then, as the guy opened the door, Steve yelled, “Hey. What’s your name?”

The guy turned and smiled back over his shoulder. “James Barnes, but you can call me Bucky.”

 

~~~

 

 _Idiot,_ Bucky told himself as he sat down at the counter. The pizza slice was oversized and greasy and did more to erase the last ten years in the desert than all his leave combined. He folded the slice and tipped it to get rid of some of the grease, mentally kicking himself for not asking the skinny guy’s name. He’d fucked up the whole encounter, actually — including the accidental invitation to a dinner date.

He’d been back in the country for three weeks, officially on terminal leave for the last seventeen hours, and already he was sniffing around the hottest civilian guy he’d seen in the last ten years. The Special Forces designation tripped a switch in his head, turning guys from “hot” to “brother,” and it wasn’t as if he’d been in countries where he could find a date or even a one-night-stand. Long dry spells between rotations back home had apparently left him desperate.

The ferocious little artist had been all sharp angles and edges. His blond hair, shaved on both sides, had a streak of vibrant cobalt blue that matched the ring through one nostril. He had a tattoo — a spider, Bucky thought, but he wasn’t certain — visible above the ripped neckline of his long-sleeved shirt. How many more tattoos did he have under there? Had he done any of them himself?

 _That_ thought was hot as hell, distracting Bucky from even tasting the pizza until he was all the way down to the crust, where a fine edge of sauce had caramelized.

He was _not_ going back to the shop to hit on the artist. No. He was going to ask to see examples of the artist’s work, he’d discuss the Howling Commandos design, he’d discuss price, and that was all. No flirtation. No overt suggestion. Definitely no making out — or rough sex — against that wall of generic dolphins, dragons, and mistranslated Chinese characters.

Bucky dropped the half-eaten pizza crust with a sigh. Tattoo artist. _Tattoo artist_. Not a quick fuck.

His phone buzzed, and he wiped his hands on a napkin so he could unlock it without smudging the screen. It was a text from Clint: _Getting inked yet?_

Bucky snorted and typed back: _15 min. Do you know the artist?_

_Yeah. Met him before my last tour. Good, isn’t he?_

Suspicious now, Bucky asked: _Are you setting me up?_

_Lol. Took you long enough._

Bucky’s gut gave a little flip of excitement. Clint was an interfering shit, but he wouldn’t send Bucky on an impossible mission. He wouldn’t sic Bucky on a guy who wasn’t gay, bi, pan, or otherwise interested in other guys.

Maybe that wall-sex wasn’t out of the question after all.

The phone’s buzz snapped him out of his too-brief fantasy. _You screwing him already? Lol._

Bucky got to his feet. He threw out his trash, went to the bathroom to wash the remaining grease off his hands, then headed out of the pizza place, ignoring three more text alerts. Only when he was outside Cap’s Tats did he read them:

_Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do._

_Are you also getting the tat?_

_Lol don’t ignore me asshole. I’m helping._

Grinning, Bucky answered: _Have a good night, Barton. See you in a week._ Then he turned the phone to mute. He didn’t want any interruptions, no matter what ended up happening.

 

~~~

 

_Wow._

Steve ran his fingers over the screen, drinking in the vivid colors. The blue background matched the streak in Steve’s hair. The wolf’s head was snarling, fangs bared, red eyes glaring with inner fire. Pure white wings to either side, stylized in three stripes instead of a spread of feathers. _Howling Commandos_ written on a banner across the top; across the bottom, crossed rifles.

His artist’s mind was already coming up with improvements, but he wouldn’t mention them. This looked official, not like something he could change on a whim. The design even came with color codes so he could get a near-perfect match, though... Should he suggest any changes based on Bucky’s skin tone? What _was_ his skin tone, anyway? He’d seemed pretty serious about tanning, except for the beard... which was odd.

This was a military tattoo, but Bucky’s hair was definitely not regulation-length, and as far as Steve was aware — though he could be wrong — beards weren’t allowed in the military, except when a medical condition made shaving difficult. Had he been out for a year or two?

 _Stop getting distracted._ His client’s history was none of his damn business.

A touch on his shoulders made him flinch. Peggy leaned down next to his better ear and asked, “What’s that, love?”

“Next customer.” Steve splayed a hand over the screen and nosed at her jaw, giving her a playful shove. “Haven’t you ever heard of artist-client confidentiality?”

She laughed and kissed his cheek. “You’re mad, you know. See you next week?”

He switched over to the scheduling software, “accidentally” hiding the Howling Commandos design. It felt personal. “You got it,” he said, clicking to bring up the next calendar week. The computer let out a beep, and the program shut down completely. “Uh.”

Peggy sighed and leaned over him again so she could write “Peggy, Tuesday, 4pm” on a sticky note. “Next week, darling,” she told him as she slid an envelope beneath his keyboard. He refused to charge her for the wedding tattoo, and she insisted on paying him, not with cash but with gift cards for nearby restaurants. She had strong protective instincts. With him, she was food-centric. With her soon-to-be-wife, she’d actually beat the crap out of a mugger who’d tried to steal Angie’s laptop bag.

“Natasha’s on a date tonight, but I’ll call her tomorrow and get this fixed,” he promised, glaring at the computer. “See you next week.”

She called a cheery goodnight and headed out, leaving Steve to waste ten seconds trying to coax the scheduling software into restarting. When that didn’t work, he went back to his drawing program, so he could study the tattoo. The original artist had known what they were doing. The drawing was in layers, making it easy for him to pull up line art for stencils, though he didn’t bother printing anything just yet. He didn’t know where his client would want the tattoo — and Steve didn’t exactly lead the sort of blessed life that would have him inking his client’s firm round ass.

No, this would probably be upper arm, shoulderblade, or mid-back. Maybe chest. That wouldn’t be so bad. Getting his client topless would be a nice consolation prize.

The door chime alerted him to his gorgeous client’s return. “That’s damn good pizza,” Bucky said, heading right to the front desk.

“Yeah,” Steve said dumbly, staring at Bucky’s smile, higher at one corner of his mouth than the other.

Bucky leaned against the desk, his smile growing a notch. “Did the drive work?”

“Yeah.” Steve took a deep breath. Leather, oregano, a hint of garlic. His stomach rumbled, even though food was the last thing on his mind. “It’s gorgeous.”

One eyebrow twitched up, and Bucky’s smile turned sly. “The drive or the badge?”

Steve’s face went hot. “The badge. It’s gorgeous. And it’s got colors and layers for a stencil, so whatever you want. _Whenever_ you want,” he corrected.

“My schedule’s open.” Bucky laughed softly, glancing back at the door. Even with his face turned away, his voice carried enough that Steve clearly heard him add, “I’m on three months’ terminal leave.”

“Terminal leave?” Steve asked. So much for keeping his focus professional instead of personal.

Bucky turned back, leaning his hip against the desk. “All the vacation time I didn’t use? It gets tacked onto the end of my service as time off. So I’m technically still employed, only get to be back home in Brooklyn instead of the desert.”

 _Home_. Back home in Brooklyn. As in, hot as hell _and local_. Talk about unfair temptation.

“So, what’d you think?”

Steve blinked, mouth twitching into a smile without any conscious effort. “That’s great. You were... army?” It was a ridiculous question with that hair, but what else was Steve to think? That Bucky was some sort of mercenary?

“Special Forces. Howling Commandos, actually.”

Steve laughed, covering the spike of nerves — and heat — that shot through him. He’d always had a thing for military guys, but Special Forces? That was like catnip to him. “That an official name?”

Bucky arched an eyebrow, eyes bright and full of mischief. “You think anyone’s going to tell us it’s _not_ official?”

Was a Special Forces soldier supposed to be adorable? Steve was pretty damn sure that was against regulations, right along with that hair. Was Bucky lying about his service, trying to act cool and tough? Steve didn’t think so, despite all the evidence to the contrary.

“So, uh, I was thinking my arm,” Bucky said uncertainly.

His arm? Which arm? What about his arm?

 _The tattoo_.

His brain kicked into gear, replaying the last few seconds. Wonderful. He’d gone all quiet again. He wasn’t just an idiot. He was a staring, obsessing idiot. “Sure. Yeah. I can resize the art to whatever, you know, if you want it” — _on your ass_ — “uh, wherever.”

Correction. Steve was a staring, obsessing, _babbling_ idiot.

 

~~~

 

For a guy who’d lived and died by the strength of his ability to plan a mission down to the last details, Bucky had screwed this up. He shivered at the cool air slithering in from the front room, wishing he’d at least thought to wear a tank top under his sweatshirt and jacket. Hell, it wasn’t like the tattoo was an impulse-buy, and it wasn’t like he hadn’t thought long and hard about where he wanted it.

The still-unnamed artist pulled up a stool next to a chair that looked like an adjustable sex toy used for intricate bondage. There was more than enough room for Bucky to get comfortable in that chair while the skinny little artist climbed on top of him for a long, hard ride.

The cold air wasn’t doing a damned thing to fix the blood flow problems that Bucky was now having. Nor were his suddenly too-tight jeans.

“Have a seat,” the artist invited, gesturing at the sex-toy chair.

Despite Bucky’s wandering fantasies, sitting cured the problem almost immediately. The padding was like ice and gave off a sharp cloud of antiseptic. Convenient as the chair was, Bucky’s apartment was only a couple blocks away, meaning his _bed_ was only a couple blocks away.

The artist turned to face Bucky’s left arm and leaned in close.. Eyeing the goosebumps on Bucky’s bare skin, he asked, “You cold? I can turn up the heat.”

Bucky winced. “Yeah, a little. Sorry. I got used to the heat, I guess.”

“No problem.” The artist’s smile was more sharp than sweet; he was the type who should’ve had fangs. He got up and went to the thermostat on the wall, and Bucky’s eyes dropped, following the line of his artist’s backbone all the way down to faded jeans that hugged narrow hips and a small, tight ass.

 _Stop staring._ He couldn’t wrench his eyes up, but he found his voice and said, “So, uh... You haven’t told me your name.”

“Huh?” The artist looked back, and his smile turned sweet and pure and _cute_. “Oh, sorry. Steve Rogers.” He used a knuckle to turn the thermostat — it had an old-style dial, not digital controls — then returned to his seat. “Sorry. I’m not used to getting walk-ins. I get most of my clients from word-of-mouth.”

“Oh. Well, yeah, sort of. My buddy Clint brought me here. Sergeant Clint Barton?”

“Clint Barton...” Steve frowned. “The name’s not familiar. Do you know what I did for him?”

“No, it was probably something for a friend of his. We couldn’t get tattoos. It was against regs.” Bucky shrugged.

Steve slouched down, eyes fixed to Bucky’s upper arm. “I thought they changed the rules.”

“Special forces,” Bucky said wryly. “We had special rules. The longer hair, the beard I had... No tattoos or anything, even if it’d be hidden under our clothes.”

Steve glanced up, eyes shadowed by dark blond lashes. “Sounds like you were undercover.”

“Something like that.” Bucky wasn’t happy with the evasion, but half of his missions were classified, and the rest would come off like bragging. In a heavy-handed change of subject, he asked, “You been doing this long?”

“All my life.” Steve spun his stool and reached out to open a drawer. “This shop used to be my dad’s. He was in the army.”

“A captain?” Bucky guessed.

Steve glanced back at him with a grin. “Yeah. It’s kind of a stupid name, but Mom always said he had a stupid sense of humor.”

 _Mom always said?_ Bucky flinched back from the implication of loss and rubbed his hands over his arms, trying to warm up. The hot air pouring into the room from the vent overhead wasn’t quite enough to drive off the late autumn chill.

“I need to shave the area,” Steve said, turning back. He set a safety razor on the plastic-covered tray table next to the sex-toy chair, then pulled on a pair of gloves. As he did, he said, “Technically I took over the shop when I turned eighteen, but I only worked here on weekends, mostly learning. I went to college for art.”

That was a comfort. Not that Bucky’s requested tattoo was all that complicated, but still. “Ever thought of doing... I dunno, regular art? Paintings or something?”

Over the scrape of the razor, Steve said, “I draw. All the time, actually. Mostly people and scenery. Skyscrapers more than trees. I love going into Manhattan for that. Sit down outside at some stupid expensive coffee shop and just draw until the light changes.”

“The light’s different, in the desert,” Bucky said absently, shivering under Steve’s touch. The safety razor was, by definition, safe, but it still felt like a threat against his skin. “The glare actually hurts. It’s so bright, it washes out all the color.”

“That sounds...” Steve’s hands went still for a moment. Then he shook his head and dragged the razor over Bucky’s arm. One stripe. Two. “You want the tattoo bright, though, right?”

 _Don’t freak out the civilian_ , Bucky told himself. “Yeah. Does it look okay?”

“It’s great. I can even match the colors.” Steve put the razor down and ran his fingers over Bucky’s arm. Without even a faint dusting of hair, Bucky’s skin felt ten times more sensitive, making him shiver again.

“Can you do it all in one visit?”

Steve nodded, busying himself with a plastic-wrapped armature next to the chair — the needle, presumably. “Yeah. And I’ve got time. I usually schedule Peggy as my last client of the day, in case she wants to go out to dinner or something.”

Jealousy spiked through Bucky, silencing him for a few seconds. “If you’ve got plans, I can come back,” he offered.

“No.” It came out fast and unhesitating, and Steve’s eyes — they were the same blue as the desert sky — locked to his. “No, she’s got a wedding to plan.”

“Yours?” Bucky blurted.

Steve’s pale cheeks flushed bright, and he looked down, fussing with the complicated-looking needle gun in his hands. “No. We broke up. I mean, she went back to England; then when she came back, we were just friends, and then she met Angie outside the diner. They got engaged at the police station.”

Bucky shut his mouth on his exclamation — _What?_ — and it came out as a choked cough.

Steve laughed, meeting Bucky’s eyes again. “Yeah, it’s kinda romantic. And terrifying. Let me get your stencil ready. Then I can tell you all about it.”

Steve was theoretically single, had a great laugh, and was either being professionally friendly or didn’t hate Bucky. “Whatever you want,” Bucky said, thinking the night was already going better than expected.

 

~~~

 

Steve hadn’t been nervous about a tattoo for about ten years, but his gut turned to ice as he watched Bucky turn in front of the mirror, glancing from his upper arm to the reflection and back.

 _Oh, shit. He hates it. He hates it, and now he’s gonna hate me._ Steve tried to think of how he could cover the tattoo, with its bold blues and golds and strong black lines, but his mind had gone completely blank. Maybe one of the part-timers could fix it? He’d comp the initial cost, of course, and he’d pay for the cover-up out of his own pocket —

“Wow.”

The softly breathed word, barely loud enough for Steve to hear, cut right through his racing thoughts. “Huh?”

Bucky met Steve’s eyes in the mirror. “This is _amazing_.”

“Really?” Steve inched closer, though not too close. He’d had his hands on Bucky’s body for three meticulous hours, with only a thin layer of nitrile between them, and he craved a bare-skin touch. “You like it?”

“It’s perfect.”

Steve got his wish when he saw Bucky raise a hand toward the tattoo. Quickly catching Bucky’s wrist, Steve warned, “No touching. Let me bandage it. I’ve got an aftercare kit for you, too.”

“Oh. Yeah, sorry,” Bucky said, though he didn’t pull away. “It didn’t even hurt that much.”

All but purring inside, Steve said, “If you like your first, it means you’ll be coming back for more. It’s impossible to stop at just one.”

“Then think of something good. This” — Bucky twitched a finger towards the new tattoo, though he still didn’t tug free of Steve’s light grasp — “was my only idea.”

Steve had to make himself let go. His face went hot, and he turned to get a newbie care package out of the cupboard. “I’ve got a whole portfolio online — all original work, not the standard stuff hanging on the walls out there.” He turned back, put the care package down on his work table, and said, “Sit back down; let me bandage that. Then you can put your shirt back on.”

Which was a shame, but even Steve’s creative, sneaky brain couldn’t figure out a reason to keep Bucky half-naked in the back of the shop. So he got the tattoo bandaged and finished cleaning up while Bucky got dressed, and then he walked Bucky out front.

And he was damned tempted to say, “First one’s on the house,” except he _did_ have bills to pay, so he rang up the tattoo, then took off a discount when Bucky paid and tipped in cash.

“So, think we can talk about some other ideas?” Bucky asked as he put away his wallet.

Steve’s heart skipped a beat, and he leaned against the desk, putting his good ear a little closer to Bucky. “Sure.”

Bucky smiled. “The pizza place next door still open?”

The pizza place? Didn’t Bucky want to talk tattoos? Steve couldn’t hide the way his shoulders slumped. “Yeah —”

“Want to?”

Steve blinked up at Bucky. “To...”

Bucky’s laugh was warm, his eyes so very captivating. When had he come so close, leaning against the desk directly opposite Steve? “To go out to dinner with me.”

 _To go out to dinner._ The words sparked bright in Steve’s head, because Bucky _hadn’t_ asked if Steve wanted to split a pizza or if Steve wanted to talk tattoos over a quick slice. “To go out” was heavy with meaning that had nothing to do with two guys discussing ink.

“Yeah.” When Bucky smiled, Steve smiled back and repeated, “Yeah. Okay.”

“And maybe, if you want, come by my place after for a drink or something?” The delivery was smooth, but the wording was so uncertain, Steve’s heart melted just a little bit.

“Yeah.” Steve nodded. “Give me five minutes to lock up. Then I’m all yours.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.”

Normally, Steve wouldn’t take a chance opening the cash drawer with an unknown customer on the other side of the desk, but he already felt like he could trust Bucky. Besides, most of that cash had come from Bucky’s own pocket; the rest of the day’s customers had used cards.

Speaking of cards... As Steve tucked the cash into a deposit envelope, he spotted Peggy’s gift card envelope. He folded the envelope and stuck it in his back pocket, then glanced up at Bucky. “You going to be in Brooklyn next spring?”

Bucky nodded. “Brooklyn’s home.”

“You know how to dance?”

Bucky tipped his head curiously, giving Steve a strange smile. “Yeah. I’m pretty good at it, actually. I had to learn, before I got dragged to about forty bar mitzvahs when I was thirteen.”

“Good. You’ve got five months to teach me not to embarrass myself at Peggy’s wedding. If you’re still around.”

Bucky’s eyes lit up. “Absolutely.”


End file.
